Tales from my handbag

I am adding something new to my cv - dog handling. Over the last couple of weeks I have learnt key skills such as how to walk a dog without a. strangling it and b. getting caught up in its extra long, totally impractical lead and falling over. Also, I have learnt how to pick up and bag a medium sized stool without a. feeling the warmth and b. soiling my hand. However, this morning I was faced with a fresh challenge. The first poo came and went without a hitch but then, without warning, a second poo arrived. Here’s the question, if your dog has done his business and you’ve dutifully bagged it, does that render the second poo null and void in terms of the need for it to be picked up? I didn’t have time to contemplate the moral issues; we were being observed by a curtain twitcher so I had to act fast. Luckily, said turd was small enough to be handled by a rain sodden mini Avon catalogue which I found languishing in the gutter. Thank God it wasn’t diarrhoea!

It’s Sunday; let’s ramble. I limbered up with some star jumps courtesy of Carmen the Unintelligible and her Cardio Funk class. I stretched, I bounced, I quivered, I perspired and then I was ready to get down and dirty on my country walk. Yesterday’s ramble was a fabulous five miler just outside Brighton. Polly needed a wee right at the beginning of the walk but said she could hold it until we passed by a toilet (she ought to slash and go in a bush, thought I but not everyone likes to pull their pants down in a rural setting so I held my tongue). En route we passed through a very dirty farm which used to be home to some black, hairy pigs; not the most attractive individuals but who cares what you look like when you’re on your way to sausage city! Polly stroked a quarantined calf but then Malcolm, who is a man and very good at diy, noticed diarrhoea and there was a bit of talk about foot and mouth at which point Polly made a dash for the tap.  We passed through the village of Rodmell where Virginia Woolf had lived at Monk House until she killed herself in the River Ouse. Malcolm had a fancy for a pint at the village pub but unfortunately, ‘due to circumstances beyond our control’ it had shut down. So, with no pint, no nibbles and no relief for Polly and her poor bladder in sight, we had no choice but to continue the ramble, back over the Downs and home. I believe Polly has now been.  �